


Forgiveness

by Pippins_Mushr00ms



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, angsty goodness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippins_Mushr00ms/pseuds/Pippins_Mushr00ms
Summary: Diarmuid wants to learn to fight, the Mute reluctantly agrees. There's an accident, then another accident, some  classic misunderstandings and complete indulgence.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Forgiveness

Whump

Set pre movie, post meeting, they're still learning about each other.

* * *

"Come on, what's a few moves going to hurt?" Diarmuid pestered, dumping an armload of cut logs on their sizable pile.

The young man brushed sawdust off his robes and turned around to face the Mute, who was carrying his own load. The man's eyebrows were drawn together, creating a deep crease.

This wasn't the first time Diarmuid asked Liam to teach him to fight.

While youngest, Diarmuid was close in age to a few other monks and novices. Every once in a while, the more hot headed lads couldn't help but scrap over something silly. A few weeks ago, it was over roofing techniques while repairing the stables. The young novice had been suckerpunched and shoved aside.

He hadn't been hurt, but the ease in which he'd been pushed aside still bothered him. In the coming days since, Liam had caught him sneaking out, more than once, to the forest. Upon following, the Mute discovered Diarmuid clumsily practicing punches and blocks.

He supposed it couldn't hurt to teach the boy a little self defense. If he were honest with himself, the idea of Diarmuid learning to fight was probably a good idea. The nagging thought that he wasn't the right person to teach him made itself at home in his mind. It felt like a rock was settled in the pit of his stomach.

He tossed his load of wood down. They'd organize it later.

A deep, resigned sigh escaped him as he turned to face Diarmuid. The Novice was already grinning. He knew that sigh.

 _"Self defense only,"_ the Mute signed. _"And the proper way to throw a punch."_

Diarmuid's face lit up.

"Really?"

Liam nodded once.

"Yes! Thank you!"

* * *

Liam groaned softly as the first rays of the sun peeked through the crack in the curtains.

His night had been a bad one, plagued with nightmares and the sensation of falling. His mind slipped back to the fighting, the clash of swords.

He would get no more sleep this morning.

Sluggishly, Liam set about his normal morning ritual of prayer, washing, dressing and a quick breakfast from the hall before getting started on his chores. He had a lot to do today and in the evening, he would be training Diarmuid again.

The young man was coming along quite nicely the last few weeks. He could even be called a natural, if no one was looking.

Most of the day passed in a sleepy haze. He couldn't shake the nightmares. There were days like this, he knew, and this melancholy could even continue tomorrow, but he would soldier on, he always did. He was okay.

He was lost in thought again, fingers mindlessly twisting bits of wire together with a bit too much force, mending the gap in the fencing. Sitting here, he had the vague sensation of being back in camp, waiting to be deployed again. The feeling made his heart beat flutter nervously. He twisted the wire harder.

 _'You're home,'_ he had to chide himself more than once, shrugging off the phantom weight of chainmail from his stiff shoulders. It was only a light coat he was wearing, no armor. _'You're fine.'_

It wasn't until a little later on that he realized he wasn't.

* * *

Diarmuid crept up next to the Mute, eyes twinkling. The bigger man was currently sitting slumped with his back to him, busy mending the chicken coop's fence.

He'd learned to be quite a bit lighter on his feet the last few weeks and thus, much quieter. He smirked. He was nearly on him.

"Ahah!" He yelled, jumping.

The only warning Diarmuid had was a violent, fullbody twitch before an elbow came shooting up out of nowhere. The Novice barely managed to soften the blow with a block, but still felt a sharp sting on his lip as the sharp point made contact. He had but a moment to register the taste of iron before there was a yank on his the back of his habit and the sky suddenly turned upside down.

 _"Whaaauuugh!"_ Diarmuid couldn't stop his surprised shout when his feet left the ground.

There was another strangled, wordless cry that was not his own.

And Diarmuid was sailing over Liam's shoulder. He tried to catch himself, brace himself for the worst of it, but he still landed _hard_ on the ground. All the air was driven from his lungs on impact and he thought he felt something twinge in his chest. God, what did he _land_ on? He rolled onto his back. Oh, that's his elbow.

Paralyzed, he stared up at the clouds, trying to remember how to breathe. Well, _that_ had been a terrible idea. The bright sky seemed to darken.

Someone was shaking him. There was too much pressure on his chest. Too much blood in his mouth. Diarmuid rolled over, ignoring his body's protest, and spat a stream of scarlet into the grass.

A vice like grip attached to his shoulder and he couldn't help a flinch when he was pulled back to face the Mute.

Oh, he looked so angry.

His eyes were blown wide at the sight of Diarmuid's bloodied face, his eyebrows so low they nearly met beneath his shaggy hair, his jaw was clenched so tight Diarmuid thought he'd break his teeth.

Oh, boy, was he in trouble now. He probably crossed a line. Liam would probably drag him off to Father Abbot and he'd have to tell him what happened. Dimly, Diarmuid tried to remember at what point this plan sounded good. He just thought it would be a laugh.

"I'm sorry," Diarmuid immediately tried to say, but found he couldn't speak yet.

Breathing was loud and painful, so the young man switched to clumsy sign.

 _"I'm sorry, I'm sorry,"_ his hands moved quickly and repeatedly. The sign for 'sorry' was painful against his chest.

The Mute looked unconvinced. If he weren't so dizzy, Diarmuid would have thought his friend was scared.

 _'Not scared, angry,'_ the Novice corrected himself, noting how quickly his friend's face turned stoney. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed to cough out, tears were starting to collect in the corners of his eyes with the struggle.

He sat up with difficulty, Liam's hands supporting his sore back. The mute tried to school his face into a neutral expression.

Diarmuid ignored the stab of pain in his torso for the moment and focused instead on the Mute's shaking hands currently pushing Diarmuid's hair back to inspect the damage. (Oh, no, he was so mad, he was shaking.)

The Novice took slow, shallow breaths, trying to calm his heart. He _had_ crossed a line, he knew it. They'd been training, sure, but to try and scare his friend… this had to be instant karma. He sucked in a deep breath.

"I'm sorry... just a joke… stupid… should have known better… snuck up on you," he whooshed out.

Something warm trickled down his chin. For a second, he wondered if he was drooling. He swiped at his mouth, embarrassed, then winced when his sleeve came away red. Right.

When Liam froze, Diarmuid mumbled again, looking away, "…sorry."

Liam's eyes softened and he sat back on his heels, dazed as if he'd been the one to his the ground. His arms dropped to his sides. Slowly, he shook his head. His face crumpled into a miserable expression while his friend stared at the grass too hard, trying to catch his breath.

Liam schooled his face into something he hoped was at least composed and tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention again.

 _"Okay?"_ he signed with steadier hands when Diarmuid was looking.

Just as miserably, Diarmuid nodded and Liam let out a relieved sigh. He could have seriously hurt Diarmuid. He hadn't exactly checked his strength. He was just suddenly _back_ and survival mode kicked in. The fact that it was Diarmuid didn't hit him until the boy was well in the air.

 _"Sorry,"_ signed the Mute.

Diarmuid just nodded again and began to struggle to his feet. Liam jumped up and offered him a hand. Diarmuid mumbled a thank you, but didn't look him in the eye. He still seemed to be panting hard. He pressed his sleeve against his lip. His other hand was pressed to his side.

Liam tapped Diarmuid on the shoulder again.

 _"Are you okay?"_ he signed again, looking deadly serious.

The expression sent a fresh spike of guilt through him. Now Liam was worried about him.

"I'm okay, just had… the wind knocked out of me," he lied through his bloody teeth before he could stop himself, just as serious. "I'm sorry… if I scared you."

Before Liam could answer, Diarmuid coughed and mumbled something about checking on the goats in the pen and started walking.

Liam let him go, still in shock. When he was out of sight, Liam gazed at the monestery for a while, drinking in the cozy glow of the lanterns, the old, smooth stone and busy monks before slowly, numbly, he turned and walked away, into the forest.

* * *

It was just starting to grow dark when Diarmuid finished with the whily animals. He hadn't lied about that, at least. Guilt ate at his guts. He'd never lied to Liam before. He hadn't seen him since his little joke, even skipping supper to avoid the awkwardness.

He shivered in the cool air, thinking just how quickly the Mute had reacted. How foolish he'd been.

His chest still hurt badly when he inhaled and occasionally, dark spots dotted his vision when he stood too fast. Diarmuid had a sneaking suspicion he'd bruised something inside when he landed.

 _'Serves you right,'_ he scolded himself again, stacking the empty feed buckets to pick them all up. _'You can go see Brother Canta after you've finished here.'_

A distressed bleat took him out of his thoughts. Startled, he looked up. One of the babies (Diarmuid called them babies), just growing his horns, had stuck his head through the pen and was caught.

"Hold on, _ceann beag_ ," Diarmuid said, wearily. (Little one)

He made his way over to assist. The Novice knelt down, and set the buckets aside, wincing at how stiff he was.

The bleating continued as Diarmuid ran his hands over the soft fur and hard horns to see where the problem was.

"Okay, okay, calm down," the boy soothed.

The tiny fuzzball wiggled. The grown goats (Diarmuid called them babies too) had no problem putting their heads through, there must be a catch somewhere here. He felt along the fence.

There was another, more insistent bleat towards the back of the pen. Like magic, the little one pulled his head back in and bounded away to the call.

"Oh, I see," Diarmuid chuckled, taking hold of his buckets again. "You wanted to play. Well, it sounds like it's bedtime for you, little one."

He later chalked it up to standing too quickly. No sooner had he reached his feet, did his vision go black, he had the sensation of falling and then, Diarmuid didn't feel a thing.

* * *

When Liam finally cooled off and shaken the worst of his nerves, he turned back in the direction of the monestery. His shoulders were still tight, and he still clenched his jaw hard.

His sorry ass apology wasn't good enough, Liam had decided. He would apologize properly when he got home. Maybe he could convince Cook to bake him some sweets to give Diarmuid.

The Mute pondered as he walked through the trees, his long gait eating up the distance.

What else could he do to make it right?

Soon he could see the glow of the monks' dwelling through the trees. Another minute and he could see it. One more and he could hear the various livestock they kept.

 _'The goats are rowdy tonight,'_ he thought absently.

There was a little one in the pen, born late, that seemed to be a bit of a trickster as he got older. His new favorite thing was putting his head through the fence and convincing everyone in earshot that he was horribly trapped until someone 'rescued' him. Then he was miraculously fine, ready to bound around and play with his rescuer.

As he got closer, he could actually hear the little trickster above the others. Was someone out there?

Suspicious, Liam crept up to the monestery's gates and silently let himself in. There was never a watch posted and it always irked the Mute, but he did his best to take that role on as inconspicuously as he could.

The cows stared at him, uninterested as he passed them. The sheep watched from the back of their pen. The chickens were in their roost. The goats grew louder as he passed the tables of drying seaweed and racks of stretched hides. Nothing seemed amiss so far.

Then his gaze landed on empty feed buckets, scattered about the ground around a small mound of dark cloth wedged against the fence. The little trouble maker was tugging at a corner of the fabric. It took him a moment to realized the dark mass in the middle was a person.

Ice suddenly flooded his guts and he found his feet moving without thinking about it. He already knew.

The familiar curls gave it away and Liam collapsed next to the boy. There was a metallic scent in the air. A frustrated grunt escaped him.

What had happened? Liam's eyes darted around, looking for signs of a struggle, some drag marks in the dirt, a shadow in the distance. Anything.

And he found _nothing_.

The dirt around the boy was undisturbed aside from his own footprints, Diarmuid's, and little gouges where the buckets had fallen. No defensive wounds could be seen on his hands or partially exposed arms.

Gently, _so_ gently, with one hand, he rolled the Novice from his side, to his back and cradled his head with the other.

He was warm, but his face was pale in the moonlight. He'd cleaned off his lip at some point. It looked to just be a small cut. It still made the Mute sick to see it.

He set him back and was horrified to feel his palm come away sticky. Head wound. Diarmuid had a head wound somewhere. Not good. His eyes were suddenly drawn sharply to a dark smear along one of the wooden slats.

His stomach contents tried to climb into his throat.

 _'No, please, no,'_ he begged silently, swallowing hard. He laid two fingers to the side of Diarmuid's neck. _'Please, please.'_

He couldn't find his pulse. His own heart nearly stopped.

_No._

Fighting a scream, the mute stooped low and held his own breath while he listened for the boy's.

He nearly collapsed in relief when the steady, warm breath tickled his cheek.

Liam almost went on auto pilot then, quickly gathering Diarmuid into his arms. He took special care to support his friend's head. The Mute took a steadying breath when the still form stirred slightly as he got to his feet.

The young brother's eyes cracked open with a pained moan. He mumbled something, pressed himself against the Mute's chest, and then stiffened. Slowly, eyes wide and unfocused, he raised them to the Mute's. Liam was sickened to see the fear in them. Then they slipped shut again, and Diarmuid went limp.

 _'Hold on,'_ thought Liam, breaking into a smooth jog.

In no time flat, he was at Brother Canta's chambers. Light flickered in the windows. Without knocking, Liam burst through the door.

The monk, absorbed in a pile of books, fell off his stool in shock. When he quickly recovered, he popped over the table, ready to shout when the spectacled eyes landed on the unmoving Diarmuid. He shoved all the books he'd been looking at off the table and motioned Liam to put him down. Liam complied.

"What on earth happened?" Brother Canta demanded, setting about to examining him. "He looks like he's been attacked! We need to wake the other Brothers!"

The Mute grunted and sat heavily in a chair on the other side of the table and rested his head in his hands. This caught Brother Canta's attention.

"What happened?" He demanded again.

The old man spun around, grabbed quill, ink and parchment out of his desk and thrust it at the Mute over Diarmuid's still form.

Silently, Liam wrote, _teaching him self defense, accident today, found him outside with the goats, no struggle, headwound._

His letters were sharp and spiky. His hands still shook, he noticed, as he held the parchment up.

Brother Canta skimmed the words and clucked his tongue, narrowed his eyes.

"Is this injury the result of your training?"

Liam shook his head. The only blood he'd seen was from his lip. That headwound hadn't been there when he saw the boy last.

"Then what happened?"

Helpless, the Mute started to shrug, but instead, miserably began writing out his detailed confession of how he'd hurt the boy and his willingness to accept whatever punishment the Brothers decided before he'd move on and rid them of his presence.

Brother Canta quickly began preparing bandages and poultices. He shoved some herbs into the hung kettle and pushed the hook into the fire to boil. With the deft fingers only a healer had, Diarmuid's head wound was soon cleaned and bandaged. The white fabric cut through the dark curls.

When he was finished, Liam set the quill down, passed the paper over and hung his head in his hands again while the old monk read. As he finished reading, Canta's gaze widened, then softened.

"Sounds like he had a rough landing," he murmured.

Without looking up, Liam nodded.

"Oh, my dear boy," he sighed.

The Mute squeezed his eyes shut at the sadness in the old man's voice. What he'd done was unforgivable.

"Liam, look at me."

Liam's stomach clenched, but he steeled himself for whatever came next and made himself meet Canta's eyes. He was wholly unprepared for the look of compassion and pity spread across the old face. His eyes suddenly stung.

"No one is going to ask you to leave," he said quietly. "Least of all Diarmuid here. This sounds like an accident."

The Mute just shook his head, forlorn. He was a danger to these people. He knew that now. His lack of control, the way his mind seemed to travel back, the nightmares. God, the nightmares. Sometimes, when he woke he couldn't tell dream from reality.

"Well, help me out here," Canta said loudly, shaking him out of his thoughts. "I need to get his robes off. I want to get a good look at him. Did he land on his side or flat on his back?"

The Mute held up one finger, indicating the first thing the Brother said. Canta winced.

"Come on, sit him up, lad."

Together, they worked Diarmuid up so that Liam was holding him and Canta could get at the ties on the back of the youngest's clothing. In no time, they were loosed and there was a pile of black cloth kicked under the table. Diarmuid was left in his soft grey pants.

Liam couldn't help the horrified sound that escaped his throat when he saw the boy's bare skin. He covered his mouth with a trembling hand, trying, once again, not to vomit. His eyes blurred.

A huge expanse of deep, dark purple marred Diarmuid's fair skin. It covered his left side. There was another bruise that aligned with the mass on the same arm. He hadn't fallen flat on his side after all.

 _He_ had done that Diarmuid. Liam. Someone who was supposed to be a friend. Someone he _trusted_.

Brother Canta clucked his tongue again, taking in the sight. Gently, he prodded the bruise and was rewarded with a soft groan and fluttering eyelashes. The movements stilled, but the Mute's heart had began to thud painfully in his chest.

"Diarmuid? Can you hear me?" the brother asked, leaning over him. He held his face gently.

"Mmmhmm," the young man hummed.

"Good, good. Can you open your eyes for me?"

"Do I have to?"

"Try, lad," Canta insisted, smiling. He winked at Liam. The man looked like a spooked horse.

They rolled, but Diarmuid managed to get them open. They landed first on Brother Canta, then as if drawn to him, the Mute. They widened, rolled back and closed again. Canta checked his pulse, nodded and set to quick work on the area.

Adrenaline was spiking in the Liam's body. He… he had to go. Now. He took a step back. And another. And another, until his back touched the wall. He felt his mouth moving, but no sound came out. He didn't know if he was praying or not. His ears rang. There was a panicked moment when he couldn't find the door and then he was running.

"Wait!" Canta called, but he was gone.

The air was cool against his hot skin. His legs pumped hard and he was aware of vaulting over the gate instead of opening it. Trees began to flash by in dark blurs.

He couldn't stop seeing the injury he'd caused. The pain Diarmuid was in, how well he'd hidden it.

He could have killed that boy.

He didn't stop until his stomach finally betrayed him, and dropped to his hands and knees. He wretched violently until there was nothing left.

He could have _murdered_ that boy without breaking a sweat. Liam had become far too comfortable in his monestery life. He'd let his guard down and Diarmuid was hurt because of it. Accident or no, he should have better control.

* * *

When he woke, Diarmuid had to force his eyes open. There was a sense of urgency itching under his skin. His head throbbed and his chest ached, but he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

He recognized the room he was in as Brother Canta's. To say it was a room was an understatement. It was more of an entire apothecary with a small bedroom attached.

He seemed to be laying on the table. The dark windows told him it was still night. Was it the same night? His brain felt thick and muddled.

"Ah, there you are, lad," came a weary sounding voice to his right.

When Diarmuid looked over, he saw Brother Canta sitting in a chair next to him, sipping a mug of tea. He set it down and helped Diarmuid sit up the rest of the way. Canta held out a small cup to his patient.

"Water, and a little something for the pain," Canta explained when Diarmuid flinched from the bitter aftertaste. The young man nodded and made to put it down but the Brother shook his head. "Ah ah, all of it."

Diarmuid groaned, but took another sip. His eyes flitted around the room over the top of the cup.

"Where is Liam?" he asked. "I could have sworn he was here."

"He… went to get some air," Canta said evasively.

It'd been hours now and there was no sign from his little windows that he'd be striding up the path anytime soon, but Diarmuid didn't need to know that.

"Oh," Diarmuid's brows knitted together as he finished his drink. "Will he be back soon? I need to talk to him. What happened?"

"I'm… not sure. But I was hoping you could tell me what happened. That's a mighty fine collection of injuries since I saw you this morning."

The Novice flushed at the sudden rush of memories and didn't speak for a long few moments. Right, he'd been stupid and then ran off to tend the goats.

"Well, lad?"

Startled out of his own head, Diarmuid twitched.

"I, uh. It's my own fault, really. I sought to show off and play a trick on Liam, but instead, I scared and upset him. He was only defending himself. I was embarrassed, so I ran."

"Diarmuid…"

"No, it's true. I got hurt because I was being silly. Later on, I guess I stood too fast and blacked out. I'm… not sure what happened to my head," he said, touching the bandage. "I mean, I can _guess_."

"Aye, you cracked it on the fence on your way down. Superficial injury. It's just a small cut. They bleed like mad though. It also appears you have injured ribs, my boy. So you are to take it easy and let them heal. Rest. No _training_."

Diarmuid sat for a moment to digest this new information. Whatever had been in his water was sneaking it's way into his system. He need to talk to his friend.

"Brother, you've done so much already… thank you, but can I ask for one more thing?"

Canta simply nodded, sipping his tea again. He looked pleasantly drowsy. Diarmuid hesitated. He couldn't.

The young man smiled and instead said, "Please go get some rest yourself. You look exhausted."

It was Canta's turn to be surprised, but he nodded.

"I will, lad, I will. I want to make sure you're settled first. Finish my tea," he waggled his cup to make his point.

The thudding in his body began to subside somewhat. He was breathing, at least. Diarmuid nodded again. He could wait the older man out.

Maybe. He was getting awfully sleepy. It was so nice and warm. His own eyelids suddenly felt droopy. Maybe he could close them for just a little while.

"Come on, lad, let's move you somewhere more comfortable," Canta said, draining his cup.

With the Brother's help, Diarmuid worked his way off the table. His legs trembled ever so slightly as he was led towards the back bedroom, which he remembered was little more than a cupboard with a cot and stuffed with more books.

"Oh, no, Brother, I'm not taking your bed," he said firmly, about facing and turning towards the fireplace. "I'll be fine out here."

"But Diarmuid--"

"No, no, I insist," Diarmuid said, hoping he sounded more stern than he felt. Now that he was up and about, some of the drowsiness fell away. His eyes were tired, but he was weary, not sleepy. Drained, but alert. "There's a nice, cozy rug on the floor that will do just fine."

Especially as the headstrong, young monk wouldn't be staying long.

Brother Canta fought down an eyeroll as he grabbed an extra blanket from nowhere. He helped Diarmuid lay down and covered him up. A familiar stab of guilt hit him as he got comfortable. The old monk tossed another log on fire. After, he turned and began buzzing around, straightening things and putting a few stray items back in order.

Diarmuid listened the bustle, warm by the fireplace. His body was pleasantly floaty. Closing his eyes for a few moments couldn't hurt.

The Novice never even heard Brother Canta shut his bedroom door before he was breathing evenly and steadily. And he certainly didn't see the knowing smirk upon his lips when he checked his patient one last time.

After all, Brother Canta had been young once, too. The boy could sneak out in the morning if he wanted to, but he wouldn't be sneaking out to find his friend tonight. Tonight, he would rest.

* * *

The Mute gazed down at his shredded knuckles. Red stains dotted his sleeves where he'd made a pathetic attempt to clean them up, but the wounds still oozed blood. He collapsed at the base of the tree he'd taken his anger out on, disgusted with himself. At his lack of control. That he hurt Diarmuid. That he hurt himself on purpose as punishment.

He let out a soft growl, running his fingers through his hair, gripping tightly until it hurt and tried to breathe. Tried to let his mind shut down.

* * *

Liam wasn't in his quarters. He wasn't with the animals. He wasn't even chopping wood like he did when something was bothering him. The only thing Diarmuid could think to do was check the gate. He found deep scuffs in the dirt path. It felt like he had a pit in his stomach.

And so Diarmuid found himself wandering the gloomy forest in the dark, wee hours of the morning, shivering slightly in his robes in the damp, dawn air.

"Liaaaam!" called the young monk. His call broke off with a cough.

The wind was well chilly now. He wrapped his arms around him. His body throbbed. The dark sky was tinged a light grey in the east.

"Liaaa--!"

A branch cracked loudly to his left, and he froze in his tracks, call stuck in his throat. A shrub shook.

"Hello?" He called softly.

A familiar, answering bleat from the underbrush. Diarmuid's knees went weak in relief. Then his face became stern.

"Oh, no. You get out here this instant!" he hissed.

Happily oblivious to the monk's annoyance, the little goat bounded out, flipping his tail. The little brown and white fuzz ball was stark against the forest floor to the human.

"What on earth are you doing out here?" he asked, picking his up in his arms.

He weighed about ten pounds now. The monk sighed. He'd come too far to turn back now.

"How'd you even get out here?" the boy grumbled.

He tucked the kid against his unbruised side and kept walking.

As if guided, he soon came to a clearing. Long shadows of the trees stretched across the expanse of grass. On the far side, there was a shadow of someone sat leaned against a tree trunk.

Sighing softly, Diarmuid went up to the slumped form. Even in sleep, the Mute found no peace. His face twitched into a frown. His hair covered his eyes.

"Stay there," he said to the baby goat, setting him down. His throat was tight.

Diarmuid knelt down and shook the Mute gently by the shoulder.

"Liam, it's me," the monk whispered.

A hand clamped down on his wrist like steel, but did not squeeze. Diarmuid's heart leapt but he didn't flinch.

"Liam, it's Diarmuid," he repeated. "Wake up, my friend, this is no place to sleep."

The grip did not falter. Diarmuid looked down at the mangled knuckles in the budding morning light. His vision blurred. What had he done? The young man felt his heart breaking. He slowly leaned in, closing his eyes, and pressed his forehead against the top of the Mute's head. They were still a moment. The breeze whispered through the leaves. He put a hand on top of his friend's.

"Oh, what have you done to your beautiful hands?" he murmured, voice cracking.

The words made Liam shudder. He released the boy as if burned and tried to back away, stopped by the tree trunk.

"Liam, please," he didn't let go of the man's shoulder. "It's okay."

The Mute shook his head, made to get up. Diarmuid clutched his fingers into the dark fabric of his shirt.

"Please, I'm sorry!"

Liam froze, finally looking at the Novice. What on earth could he be sorry for?

"Just-- wait, please," he was losing his breath. He sat hard on the ground. "H-hold on."

 _'Oh, no,'_ he thought, spots were dancing at the edge of his vision. He forced himself to take a slow breath, held it and let it out in a whoosh. Again. And again. His eyes were watering.

About the fourth breath, he realized the Mute was at his side, concern etched in his face. He coughed and launched into a rambling tirade.

"I'm okay. I'm sorry, i know, this is all so dramatic. I'm sorry I scared you earlier, and I really hope you can forgive me. I know you're upset, and I didn't mean to. I just wanted to show you how much I learned, but I'm terrible, and I should have known better than to sneak up on someone like that. I should have never-- It wasn't--"

The edges of his sight clouded and he had to pause in his sudden rambling. He was panting hard now, coughing slightly. His heart was pounding. The Mute was gently shushing him, arm around his shoulder. He rested his cheek on top of Diarmuid's head and rocked him gently.

 _That's a lot of 'should haves'_ Liam was signing with his free hand. _It's okay._

"Well…" Diarmuid broke off with another cough.

The Mute tapped his friend on the shoulder. When he was looking, he signed, _I'm sorry too. Sometimes, I…_ he trailed off for a moment and he closed his eyes, trying to decide how he wanted to say it.

 _I've done... bad things. Horrible things._ he paused again, closed his eyes. _In another life. Those things… haven't really left me. They probably never will. Sometimes…_ his hands stuttered. _Sometimes, it feels like I'm back…_ he stopped and shuddered.

Diamuid desperately wanted to interrupt. To tell him it was okay. He had nothing to apologize for. He didn't need to tell him anything he was uncomfortable with.

Instead, he let his friend continue, watching his beat up hands intently. It was a flurry of movement now.

_When I threw you, I didn't hold back. I was suddenly in the field, waiting to be ambushed. I could have killed you and I wasn't even able to stop myself. It was just… automatic._

He looked down, ashamed, pointed at himself, then brought both fists to his chest, raised the right one twice up and down over his left; _I'm dangerous_.

There was a pause.

The grey light had brightened to a pale pink. A fuzz ball jumped into the mute's lap. Startled, Liam recognized it as the tricky little kid from their stables. The black spot on its nose was unmistakable as he nuzzled into the human's open jacket and settled down with a content sigh.

"Yes, so dangerous. Mighty goats cower in fear of you," Diarmuid smiled, patting its back. He was glad the tension was broken.

Something warm was growing in the pit of Liam's stomach. Like a glowing light. This wasn't exactly going how he planned, but he'd take it. He noticed Diarmuid's smile falter.

"I _am_ very sorry," he said again. "For everything. No one should have to go through such troubles. I didn't think…"

Liam waved off the apology, it was history. He would just have to be even more vigilant in his behavior. A minor adjustment to be dealt with in the future, he convinced himself (knowing it wasn't just that easy).

 _Stop_ he signed, _Please. It's okay. I'm so sorry I hurt you._

"You're forgiven, brother," came the automatic, heartfelt response.

He snorted out a surprised laugh that made everyone jump, scratching the baby goat with his fingertips.

 _'How is it so easy for you?'_ the Mute thought. _'To forgive so easily?'_

They were silent for a moment. Comfortable now, in each other's company. The Novice coughed again, rubbing his chest. He was starting to shiver slightly.

 _We should go back,_ Liam signed, noticing.

Diarmuid simply nodded. The Mute shrugged his jacket off and slung it about the monks shoulders before he could protest. Then he stood with the baby goat in the crook of his arm. He offered his free hand to Diarmuid, who sat with his mouth open for a moment before taking it.

"Yes, we should," he said, and shivered as the warmth of the heated coat seeped into his skin.

The sky was bright pink now. Brother Canta was waking to an empty rug, a neatly folded blanket, and a fresh kettle of water on the hook, ready to be swung into a freshly fueled fire. He smiled blearily, knowing where his patient went.

In the distance, Diarmuid and Liam could hear the bells for morning mass ringing.

Together, they made their way home.


End file.
